Page 18 of Bratva Bride
The words landed like bullets from a sniper rifle. Each one precise. Each one meant.
"Not Ivan," he continued, taking a drag from his cigar, the ember glowing red in the car's dim interior. "Not the Volkovs. Me. It's the only way to preserve my honor if my own daughter proves herself a traitor."
My throat closed. Twenty-six years of being his daughter, and I still wasn't prepared for his casual brutality. The way he could discuss murdering me with the same tone he'd use to order wine.
"The treaty is specific," he went on, studying his cigar like it held the secrets of the universe. "A wife who betrays the marriage agreement can be executed by her birth family to prevent war. It's an old clause, but still binding. The Volkovs would actually respect me more for it. Might even send flowers to your funeral."
He smiled then. Actually smiled. Like the thought of my funeral brought him genuine pleasure.
"Of course, I'd prefer to avoid that unpleasantness," he said, brushing imaginary ash from his three-thousand-dollar suit."You're valuable to me alive, at least for now. Your linguistic skills, your decryption abilities—Ivan will find uses for them. And every successful project you complete for him reflects well on me. Makes me look generous."
Generous. Like I was a gift he was bestowing instead of a human sacrifice to save his own skin.
"But if you shame me," his hand moved faster than I could track, gripping my chin hard enough to bruise, forcing me to look directly into those empty blue eyes, "if you make me look weak by running or crying or failing to perform your wifely duties, I will gut you myself and send Ivan your head in a box with an apology note."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't nod. Could only stare into the face of the man who'd created me and now discussed destroying me with less emotion than he'd shown choosing his cigar.
"Do you understand?" he asked, his grip tightening until tears leaked from my eyes despite my best efforts.
I managed the smallest nod. Just enough movement for him to feel it through his grip on my chin.
"Good." He released me, turning away like I'd already ceased to exist. "Now get out and be the perfect bride. Smile. Be grateful. Make me look generous for giving you to them. I’ll see you at the wedding. And don’t forget, I love you,detka."
I almost laughed.
He opened his door, stepping out into the afternoon like a man without a care in the world. I sat frozen for three seconds—three seconds to swallow the bile in my throat, to force my hands to stop shaking, to arrange my face into something that might pass for calm.
Then I opened my door and stepped out onto Van Brunt Street, the warehouse looming above me like a brick mountain I had to climb.
The security guard inside had stood up, was opening the door for us. I could see another man by the elevator, tall and scarred, probably one of Ivan's brothers. Everyone watching. Everyone waiting to see Viktor Morozov's daughter perform gratitude for her own imprisonment.
I smiled. Made it reach my eyes the way I'd learned to do at state dinners and diplomatic functions. Made it look like I was happy to be here, honored to be chosen, grateful to be given to a man I'd never met.
Because the alternative was my father's hands around my throat, and I wasn't ready to die.
Not yet.
Theelevatorrequiredakeycard that Ivan's brother Dmitry produced with scarred fingers, and I memorized the way he held it—angle of approach, pressure, the soft beep of acceptance—because my mind couldn't stop gathering data even when my body wanted to collapse. The elevator was modern, all brushed steel and hidden lighting, nothing like the baroque gold monstrosity in my father's building. No mirrors to reflect my pale face back at me. No music to fill the silence. Just the whisper of cables pulling us up, up, up.
Dmitry stood behind me, not touching but close enough that I could smell leather and cigarette smoke. My father had already vanished—dismissed by Dmitry with a look that suggested Viktor Morozov ranked somewhere below interesting in the Volkov hierarchy. The treaty signed. The goods delivered. Transaction complete.
“Your father is charming,” Dmitry said, voice thick with sarcasm.
“He’s a pig.”
Dmitry laughed. “You said it, not me.”
“Animals often recognise others of the same species,” I spat.
To my surprise, he laughed again. “Ivan is going toloveyou,” he growled. “You’re gonna break his heart, I can already tell.”
Second floor passed. A soft chime. Then nothing—no other floors accessible without that keycard. The third floor belonged to Ivan Volkov alone.
The doors opened directly into his space, and I forgot how to breathe.
Not because I was terrified—though I was, terror running through my veins like antifreeze—but because it was beautiful in a way I hadn't expected from a man everyone called the Ice King.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Dmitry said. “Anya, don’t be afraid. Dmitry is a good man.”
